I've found the fatal flaw of the KitchenAid Stand Mixer. One Beater.
Growing up, I was an only child until the age of 7 and a half. And even after my darling little brother entered into the world, it was a good three years before much of what he did affected my privileges regarding the licking of the beaters during baking sessions. And by then, well, I was ten and didn't care as much. But even if we had been closer together, close enough to both demand something to lick after a batch of brownies or cookies or pudding was whipped up in my parents kitchen, there were always two beaters. As it was, I usually got both aside from the occasional stealing of a beater by my dad.
Now putting aside fears of salmonella and too much sugar, licking the beaters of a mixer is one of life's great pleasures in my book. What could be sweeter than a taste, more than a taste if mom was feeling generous and didn't scrape too much off, of whatever delicious treat we were in store for later in the day. And up until this week, I've carried on this time honored tradition with Briton, that was until Evelyn cottoned on to what she was missing. And here is where the KitchenAid mixer comes into the mix.
I love my stand mixer. As I've already proclaimed, despite her age and crankiness, I use the old girl on an almost daily basis. I don't know what I would do with out her. BUT, she only has one beater. And that can cause serious problems.
Really, it's all the fault of Spring Break. You see, there I was, making a second batch of cookies for the week (the previous batch having disappeared long before they should have, we'll say Spring Break was responsible for that too) Briton at my side, adding the flour and the chocolate chips, his two favorite steps (flour for the inevitable puff of white that erupts form the bowl when he turns it on too fast and the chocolate because, well, that's obvious, right?). Dough balls on pan and extras stowed in the freezer I began to dismantle for washing, handing the beater to Briton to "pre-clean" it when Evelyn walked in.
"Want lick too mommy!" she said, pointing to the beater. Crap, crap crap crap. Why didn't I make the cookies during nap?Why didn't I save the bowl for her, now sitting full of soapy water in the sink? Come to think of it, why didn't I give myself the beater and send the kids outside while I furtively licked the last crumbs of batter off of it? Too late now.
There we stood, Briton with his tongue wrapped around the white rubberized side of the paddle beater, Evelyn standing, hands of fists looking expectantly at me, Shootout at the OK corral music drifting from the stereo. Ok, so the music was only in my head, but that's where we were headed. Tantrum at the Grimm Kitchen. I didn't blame her. She's nearly three, of course she was going to figure out that what mommy mixed in the big silver bowl and the yummy things that came out of the oven were connected.
As the "Wah, wah, wah" played in my head I grabbed a spoon and a soon to be frozen ball of dough out of the freezer, smearing a chunk onto the bowl of the spoon and handing with over before the scream could even escape her mouth. Crisis averted, lesson learned (use hand mixer when both kids are awake/home, or better yet, bake after bedtime)
And what did I do with the rest of that ball of cookie dough? Only my taste buds can say, and they aren't talking....
